20. Of Gaseous Clouds

Of   Gaseous  Clouds  

Floatingabout  the  Nullarbour  Never-Never   Wastes.

(  dedicated   to  sexually-arousing  Grotty-Yachty,  
David   the  Bard  of  Bloggers  
also   known  at  Bigpond/BigBlog  as   the  gaseous,  vaporous,   laced  poet,  
Timothy   the   doubter  about   and   finder of   pins  in  the   haystacks,   
Yamarka  the   eternal  winger  and  his  Ten  Canoe   people,  
and   the  'o'-so-loving  Anglicans ).

Sometimes  I  sit  and   wonder
in   analogies   drifting,  curling  and  twirling 

like  smoke  does,  randomly,

like  a  fat   gaseous   cloud,

patrician  looking,  all  white,
with  just  a   twinge   of   grey,

that   carbon  emissions   betray,
probably   emitted   in  far-away  Queensland,
by   those   big,  fast-copulating  and  breeding,  
mightily  and  loudly-farting   water  buffaloes,   
imported   from   Indonesia   by  some  Australian  dill,
buffaloe-loving,

Rudd  is  becoming  increasingly   worried   about,

yes,   as  I   the   cloud,    was  saying,  resting  awhile,
before  resuming   my  drifting, 

to  better   contrast  the   immensity 
of   the   bleu  sky  around,
in  contemplations  immersed
of   self-possessing  doubts
watching   the  red  vastness

  of  the Nullarbour  plain  below,

of  Yamarka  and  of  the  Ten  Canoes-people
   the  incomprehensible  delight,
   resulting   from   too   much   sunlight 

on   bare  headed   skulls
   when   still   young,
    for   the   want 
of a  good   bush  hat   I   guess.
........................................................................
Strangely   enough  
my   everlasting  obsessions  arise
of  how  the  Arabs  for  Salam  Cafe’s  
now    highly   noted  and  
in  even  greater repute  than   ever  before,
   could    have  had  the   brains   to  discover 
of  the  big   Zero,
   the   vast array  of  virtues  and  uses,  

without   which   zero

    neither   God,  

Who is  reputed   to  have   created   everything  

out  of  nothing (nihilo)  or   zero,  

nor   capitalism,  

which   would  have  been  limited  

to  a   jewish   abacus  to   count,

could  have   prospered.

Bill  Gate  himself  

would   not  have  had  a  PC  

to  play  around   with   and   

the  chance   to  invent  

Window   Microsoft  to  boot.

Especially  I,   the   gaseous   cloud 

which   aforesaid   I   talked   to  you  about,  

rememberst   thou? 

Even   I   wonder  of   why,

while  the  West   chose   the   Zero   

to   appear  as   a   big   ‘ O ',
    like  a   big   holy   halo
   or    to  be   more   earthly   bound,
even   like  onto  the  large,
   bovine,  arctic    blue    eyes   of    G.Y., 
now  probably   sunk  off   the   Queensland  coast
where  she   used   to  live  on  a  dilapidated   yacht
.............................................................................
yes  my  beloved  G.Y. who, like  the  Greek  ladies

 extolled  and  sung   about

  by   even   the   great   Homer   himself,
for  their  round,  large,  innocent    bovine-like   eyes,
which  looking  up   at   you
    as   if  in    eternal  and  innocent  wonder,  struck,   perhaps,   
who  is  to  know?, 

perhaps  this  having  been  the  result
  of   some  superhuman,  mythical,  orgasmic   feat  

her ancestral  DNA  may  have  indulged  in,

  in   times   memorable,   bygone   and   past, 

halas!

( don’t  you   be  fooled   by   these,  oh   stranger ),  

gently  stirring  your   innards 

like  a    gallon  of  olive oil;

how  the  Arabs   decided   that,

perhaps   more   wisely and  fittingly  than the  West,

that  the   zero   should  rather  be   shown 

as  a    fig-shaped,   twisted,   squashed,

long   suffering  smallish   ‘o’, 

an   ‘o '  that   appears  as  if  traumatized  

by   some   sodomitic   experience, 

or  perhaps   just  piles,   or  even   both, 

God   may   forbid,   halas!

all   contracted,   twisted  and  anorexic-like, 

perhaps   to  improve  the  picture  slightly,

perhaps  as  it   being   too   dry,

even  like  the   little 'o' 

a  de  Laurents-model   

would   probably   sport,

as  if  just   out  of   a  sodomitic,  spasmodic   and  spastic 

orgasmic  gasping,

or,  just  after  an   aggravating  cracking

induced   by   vigorous  farting,  in  turn

induced  by  loud  laughing  brought  about  

by Salem  Cafe’s  poor   antics,  

not   to  mention

    the  more  subdued  and   discreet antics

   resulting  from  effeminate 

oxfordian  and  cambridgean,  

pseudo-Gregorian

Anglican  chantings.

Honny   Soit   Quy   Mal  Ye   Pense.       

19. Of Passion and Action.........................

This  Poem   I   dedicate   to   all  the   girls   I   know,  in  particular    G.Y   who   has   always   provided   moral   support   to  my   blogging  activities. 

David   I  must   also    mention  as  our    official   bloggers'  Bard

who    triggered   my    efforts   at   " listening  to  the  inner  Voice ".

Of Passion and Action,

or,  Vice  and   Virtue,

and

of Ludwige and Luthien

norwegian twinned nymphs.

Of Passions and Actions which Motion inform

I shall here sing oh divine Muses,

Muses not Muse since mighty the task is

of all celestial deities and nymphs terrestrial

the approval and smile requiring.

Of Passions and Actions then,

of which,

in human and godly Deeds alike

wise Aristotle the stagirite

did measure the range and heights

defining these as Virtue

when from amidst their span,

in not exactly middling proportions

between  the  extremes,

which   Passion  and  Action  are 

the Motions of which  arise to those godly heights

that both Olympians and Hyperboreal

Artic and Antartic,

nordic and australic

godly abodes are.

Abodes  of  those whom Sir Laurence Gardner’s Anunnaki calls,

who  mightily  inhabit  such  heights

to which, from our Beings

Motions they cause continuously to ascend

as the reaction to the Motions by which

the gods keep on

either blessing or harassing us,

and that they cause descendingly

and condescendingly to reach us,

in order to laboriously amuse the One Who,

Alone,

Unity is also called and Jehovah,

Whose boredom they relieve

to avoid a return to the eternal and

a-sensual bliss

in which mortals and Creation alike

are just that a-sensual Nihilo,

that  Nothingness, that Void

in which God,  

IT( He/She)Who  is,

 is but an invisible, self-subsisting,

etc. etc. etc. 

Dot.

Vast as the subject and the mystery of it all is,

I shall it analogically to you virtually  esplain

oh dear cottonwhool-brained fellows of mine,

although always partially and in an incomplete fashion,

since of the gods to us the similarity

is not given to fully expose, to  us

who are to earth bound and find it hard to rise

to the ethereal and thought-thinning heights,

where it all can, always analogically and as  if   through  a  veil,

in a human fashion clear become.

I shall then call upon this task to accomplish,

Ludwige and Luthien, sisters, nymphs to my aid

who semi-divinely reside and courtly rule

in those hyperboreal arctic heights

which to the mighty grecian Olympus are twinned,

sisters who aptly can represent to us poor mortals,

Action and Passion in an erotically-amorous paradigmatic fashion

which more accessible is to our lusty and carnal attractions,

however intended by the Almighty

to be perfectible and meant to rise,

levitated as we supposedly are when sublimated

through the ordeals that Scarcity,  Entropy and Necessity

through the Motions, purifyingly placed on our earthly paths,

in order for these Motions, Virtues to become
through  practice  and  use.

I said analogically, meaning partially and imperfectly

since it is not fit and just to exactly aim

at a knowledge of things which

while gross and objectionable in us mortals

yet still divine and endearing are

when suffered and annunakely-wise performed.

Remember in fact oh cottonwhool-brained mortals

that in this song the judgment is from them

and not from us directed,

not relatively to our perfectibility

but to their hyperboreal and olympic loftiness  that  is  perfect.
And  this  is  the  stage  at  which  Charity  or  Agape'
make  their   presence  felt  as  absolute  peaks  
that  cannot  extremes  conceed.    

My joy bounds does not know, ecstatic becoming and mystic

when upon the sisters I finally can call,

having exhausted the unsavory and hard task

of clearing the way to them

that cottonwhooled human brains

must trod in order to their heights to rise.

Remember oh reader of mine, that the issue is not simple,  
but  paradoxical  indeed-:

Although to Eros, so  popular with us,  

the unavoidable first rung   belongs  

on  the   ladder of   analogical realities

that finally reaches  even  upo  to  God
from  God   down  to  us,  Agape'   flows,
Eros  to  redeem  and   lift,  and  this  Grace  is  called.  

 To human poles  of  Passion  and   Action

on the earthly line

there also correspond ones which are semi-divine on high,

and these are the ones which cause the rise on high
along  the   middling   term  between   both  extremes
in  accord   to   another  of  the   absolutes    
like  Agape'   above,  that   Justice  is  called.

Ludwige and Luthien, sisters, nymphs semi-divine,

are   semi-divine  Poles

who so differ  in  loftiness 
from poles of the same  and one Motion,
which   sublimated  must  be,

 human  and  mortal  ceasing to be,

by the subterfuge of   humans   rising  out

of the level, low line

that both of these connects  at 

of  human knowledge's  horizon's  the circle,

humans enslaving down-to-earth to their humanity  that  is  born  mortal,
however  paradoxically   also  immortal
if   the  soul  is   the  portal  that  to  the   divine   aspires.

The moving Force that from the middling part of such a line

such feat encompasses of human motion rising divinely,

powered through its lofty Poles,
those   below  and   above  alike,
in  a   conspiracy  allied,

by the Almighty Divine,

Virtue by Aristotle is called,

and is a link between Ludwige, Luthien and I,

in a blessed triangle that is semi-divine,

which all who strive and graced are, similarly entwines,

so that by rising they might fulfill that destiny

that to humanity was since the Beginning potentially assigned,

to become through Faith, Hope and Charity,

virtuous   Motion  and   Act.

...............................................................................

I shall now endeavour to tell imperfectly
and   sportingly   for   some   glee  to   realize    

of Ludwige and Luthien the arcane semblances,

so that you also oh cottonwhool-brained mortals

may recognise them when your turn may come

to rise even such as I may,  
when  so   graced,  
blissfully   do.

..................................................................................

Ludwige is Nibelungian and a Walkiria,

of Wagner’s and Goethe’s the filia,

of rotundities full,

both of the concave and convex sorts,

abundanttly endowed

such that even a constipated, anorexic little greek geometrician, 
who deprived of epic motions

by its elocutions and bickerings,

in the Agora’ continuously measuring and arguing

of abstract theorems,

artificially complicating everything and

insisting in only using letters instead of numbers

until the arrival of Mohammed

who blessed by the Moors is called,

who such nonsense exorcised.

The Greek only an unmarked ruler and a compass

to draw the geometrical figures allowed,

in order to demonstrate of Euclide’s,   the master,

the divine but wasted brightness.

Even such a geometrician of common sense so deprived

could appreciate  of  Ludwige's

the osculating and aloft-rising potentialities,

which extended from the line’s and proportionalities’ the science

to the  one  of  the circle and its circularities and irregularities,

even becoming tri-dimensional,

from conic sections giving rise

to parabolic, hyperbolic and ellypsoidic notions

with their asymptotic motions

which gave rise to trigonometry with all its sexual notions,

which the astronomers inspired revolutions various to observe

of the celestial bodies which also began to have Motions

whereas before had possessed

centrality, impassivity, staticity and eternity.

Which notions provided the spring

to Descartes, Leibnitz and Newton, etc.

to ponder and weigh the infinitesimally small,

that calculus became called, 
that  opened  the  way   to  the    invisible  motions   
of  the  elementary  particles 
   among   which   God    ITSELf   
used  to  hide   and  rest  sometime,  
awakened  by  the   rude,  petulant,   arrogant  
 Shabbath-chanting   
of   the    confounded,    self-deluded,   self-chosen
all-others   excluding   Abirus,   
the  Prophets  destroying
trouble-arousing   masters.

Philosophy in turn further seduced was

which thus left Theology behind,

who the Queen of Science had been called

without her maid to be served by.

However one must gratefully assent to the truth that

before the maid seduced was,

thanks to Aristotle’s distinctions between Potentiality and Act,

common sense had already begun to awake

in greek theoretical semi-platonic minds,

which the Ideas believed to be living celestial realities,

which through knowledge alone could humanity of Virtue instruct,

rather than to ascend  to  the  possibility  that a human could only be able to do so 

through Grace, experience and praxis,

that knowledge should inform rationally,discriminatingly and judgementally, until willingly

right Motion could become Virtue in right Act.

In fact, analogically speaking of her as Passion,

that  at  its  human  extreme   even  Vice   could   be,

in dear, opulently-built Ludwige,

all this had paradoxically a  beginning  had.

(   to  be   continued )

18. An Ode to David,

An   Ode  to  David,  

our    blogging   Minstrel.

Oh gentle and sweet-tongued troubadour

who like a gentle and soothing breeze

from western shores of distant seas

tides brings,

it is of time rather than of distance cruel

that thy well fitting and eclectic words

here and now memories bring

like ghosts of ages past-gone.

I welcome you therefore to these parched shores

that dreaded Global Warming shall make even more so,

that monster which, evolution that never resting stays

shall bend to ever more increase the layers of cottonwool

that the Good Lord above decreed  by

undeserved kindness moved, to give

for the protection of the halas already tiny brains

of us poor dwellers on these god-forsaken shores.

Thy gentle voice that like the harp

of that ancestor of yours,

whom ancient myths from Greece tell us arose,

whose songs lions and beasts tamed untold,

shall likewise my pain and anguish soothe,

that cottonwooled, poor, tiny, unreasoning brains

to rage and anger move untold,

and Ferrerix Australix, who

"the gentle-hearted" is called,

make a gentle, barbuto-Templar

again become. 

"Non   nobis,   non   nobis, 

sed   ad   Nomini   Tui,

das   Gloriam,   Domine."
 

17. To Luthien a Norwegian Nymph.

To Luthien a Norwegian Nymph.

Oh elusive and mysterious nymph

from hyperboreal artic rings

with the sad and apologetic smile that

MonaLisa-like, of Sartre’s the existential wit

complainingly craving that divine essence

that elusively turns -out

miserable human existence to be

whether one of a religious or non-religious

frame of mind structured-with is,

thy smile shows frozen through your

thinly-parted, cheekely-promising, turgid lips

the pearly white of your tiny predatory teeth.

I dream of the desire of thee

when sleep deserts of longings-full

my lonely, tormented bachelor-nights

that vigilantly and expectantly,

always in vain, wait for you.

" Halas!"

I tell myself at times as these

which an eternity to me appear to be,

" What would I do if instead of here

where nights are just

the sevenhundredthirtieth of a year's  fraction

were I to be there where

my Luthien abides

a night there lasting half a year?

What would I do

if during the protracted hyperboreal artic nights

had I to pine disconsolately and sigh

for her elusive and evanescent

presence and sight?

I surely would then wish

during such an eternal night

that, thus deprived of her sight

from the lack of her

I should surely die".

16. Oh Woman from Islam.

To   G.Y.  and  David   the  bloggers'  Bard. 

To   all  the   Women  in  my  Life.

Oh woman from Arabia,..................... 

you fill my sleep with wondering

the mystery of your uncomplayning

all-hiding,     of your stoic soul   all-shrouded

in an all encompassing black cowling

which like a funereal shroud

as if in an eternal mourning

that never respite nor reprieve showing,

condems you as if to an eternal oblivion lowing.

When in my youth along the asphalted road

of the North African shore on a two-wheeled steed

moved with the speed that envying camels and donkeys

with feigned silence, the aloof and disdeigning twisting

of their worried and parched lips alone their envy showed

shimmering in the rising heat-waves,

lines of these black-shrouded women of Arabia

as if an mirage I saw,

silently for miles untold,    trodding

like   beasts  of   burden  loaded

but I was young and shy  and  

by  my   very   youth's   longings  worried

and in my innocent deaf-like guilt, and   worry

I just   kept going

in dread of the ubiquitous unchanging and unrelenting

all-shrouding Sharia Law,

that even the sand  as witness   holds

Their silent screams of corresponding and mutual longing

now in my twilight years I hear

that to my speeding young soul,

then as if in escape engaged,

in my sleep my delayed new-being now reach

with silent questions as to the reasons why-:

Of all this jealous inhumane shrouding,

all deprivations in its blackness hiding,

of the inhumane limitations that for ages untold

the arabian Eve have kept frozen

as if in a dreaded criogenic morgue

all shrouded in black, hidden, removed, despoiled

of all the freedom that God by whichever name

one may wish to call gave to humankind

as the inalienable birthright of all.

Your silent screams oh desert-dwelling, poor arabian souls

in female forms to God born,

from your black-shrouded forms to me now reach

my sleep disturbing

through understandings and awarenesses that time took to know

and tell me of the chains that for times untold

your human souls have kept and held

in the oblivion that is the fruit

of the eternal limbo of your world which

to me rather seems like a hell on earth.

Is this the price that you must pay

for man’s predatory and uncontrolled

hubris and lust that limits does not heed

to his weak flesh and nature

which wishes to punish and destroy

the object lof his lusts?

that needs to put in chains and shrouds

the one whom God designed and assigned

for man to love and cherish thus in vain?

Where is the so vastly and ubiqously vaunted

of God the mercy and compassion,

that in the the  loving  Fatihah wondrously

these very godly words like in an ocean swim?

By thin, sharp, cruel lips,

the predatory teeth barely hiding,

the words professed are,

with soul uncommitted and hypocritical body gymnastics,

that of empty ritual reek.

An empty ritual that with vanely professing praying lips

the good, unknowing, well-meaning

women-loving, Mohammed gotten must have

from the Pharisees of old,

whom Jesus the Good Rabbi and the very Son of God

had already to Gehenna thrown

and condemned for their showy of piety-shows.

Oh  shrouded   woman of Arabia,

my heart goes,  crying-out to Thee!

15. Of Bloggers’ Divinisation.

 Note-:   The  blogger   is  looking   for     some    guitar-strumper   to    put   music   to   this   worthy   song  which,   when   sung  in  a  pub   would    result  in   long   sessions  of   mead   consumption,   mutual  edification    and     joy,   etc.   etc..

 Of Bloggers’ Divinisation.

Oh fellow-bloggers

from both genders called

and even thou oh Bimbo

thou sweet hybrid twit,

unlike great Shakespeare who

the Romans’ ears on loan asked for

on Antony’s behalf

of great Julius’ the tragic end

and  dramatic  eulogy

to posterity spin-off,

thus proving that concealed within him,

as true as an Englishman can be,

the Romans  he   thought nothing else

to hold between their ears but these

not even the cottowool that we,

from southern, parched and sunny lands

which from emerald Albion cool and fair much differ,

must hold in order to our tiny brains protect,

assigned for this purpose for our own comfort

not less than by Mighty God Himself/Herself/Itself.

Nay, more charitably than Shakspeare

shall I my dear fellow-bloggers

here act with thee

to show of you my high opinion

which I between my ears

loftyly indeed and in my very heart

I truly hold of you,

nay, of you my worthy bloggers fair

of your noble thoughts the loan

I shall here and now ask forthwith.

Then lend me your thoughts oh bloggers mine

and loftily together we shall

to hyperborean hights rise there

where of frozen mist and ice

our frozen artic love, Luthien and I,

painfully yet passionately

do weave and spin,

which paradox does not at all mean

since the pain that love that truly is

passively must suffered be

and this is why ‘passionate ‘ called is.

Your thoughts than lift up mine to reach

and see how spiritual our bloggers’ bonds

really are that together us drive

through interminably, endless uploaded Posts

which share our very souls,

wits, likes and dislikes alike,

not to mention the vile moments when

like the vilest among us,

Ferrerix the Templar we fall in

when to his bad temper roused is

who also denominated Australix is

in order to honour give

to the new and mighty land

which he has been commissioned to fix,

flowing with wine and roast-beef,

food which although mightely

by all Templars enjoyed

halas his gout excites

thus converted must he be

to eternal vegeterian fare and watery drinks

which sufferingly must he be satified with

no passion indeed is he

assuredly I can assure you, finding in this

unlike the love that Luthien and I enjoy indeed

which very passionate is

in spite of the frozen ice and frosty mists

of hyperboreal Norway where my dear darling abides in.

Sometimes to battles drawn are we indeed

like Gentle-Hearted the Templar in which

vile and insulting verbiage mutually hurled

by pens which wielded are like swords

the storm of our temper vile

intended to mutual hurt inflict

when finally,

satiated and spent like a becalmed sea

that aforewith raging has been,

or rather like baboons

from dark Etiopia’s shaded highlands

which with their small button-like eyes

like bits of glass glittering in the sun

their cunning 
and aflame with sudden rage

which for no known cause

a fight suddenly begin

and suddenly illogically also end,

by some fluttering butterfly distracted perchance,

 we cease from fight some whily diplomatic ruse

 to mutually spin

in order for the folly to cease

and our loving purely platonic

relations to resume forthwith.

Through Comments which sorely tax our patient souls

interminably, forbearingly, forgivingly,

christian-like we labour to comment worthily

whenever Telstra’s BigPond’s BigBlog’s

crummy editing programs one has to deal with,

through sheer illogicality and nitwitry

of their programmers who

as if from some Neo-Nazy Den

originated who censor and

suspiciously analyse our messages

with automatically-run programs which

judgment are not endowed with.

These Comments when answered

by insiders and outsiders alike

are the ties which Online

the ethereal waves of Internet quasi-divine,

everyone together link

in a vast World-Net ubiquitous

that even to God on High Above can reach.

Please do your thoughts still keep rising with mine

and consider that generally, few among us

have ever gazed upon the living form

 of any one other of us

as if restrained by some arcane and unheard of Rule

especially if of an opposite gender be,

 the   idiosyncrasy  of  which, 

 typically australian-like   being,  

as  in  the  case  for   me   of 

G.Y.,  Shadow,  Diane  and  Cindy,   Dear  Cindy 

who,  of  my  Luthien,  painfully  reminds  me. 

 Spiritually, contentedly

if unawarely so of this,

except that I am here and now

pointing this out to you

as the mission and duty of a true Bard should be

with this of poetry an unworthy script,

which David of all Bards known and unknown

the worthy paradigm

would certainly condemn as unfit

we soar on  high  as if little of the Internet

the semi-gods  led by worthy

and subtilely-everything-analysing

pondering and all-doubting, challenging Tim,

a   Master  at  finding  in-the-haystack,  pins.

Dear    fellow   bloggers,

this Song has now reached

its twilight and end

and I feel moved to ask you

in  a   sad   yet   joyful  mood  

as   of  Luthien's   the  dream   I   behold  

which  never  far,   cloud and heavenly-like  

before   you  suspended   is, 

a democratically motivated inquest-:

" Are we perchance divine becoming

as worthy and dreaming

De Chardin the Jesuit

of  Ignatius  Loyola's  a   worthy  son

mightely dreamed that humanity,

nay,   the   cosmos  as  a   whole,  

not  just  us   bloggers,

would divine become

once reaching that final goal

that the Omega point he calls?"

Amen.

Note-: By the Omega point Chardin intended Jesus of Nazareth as the Christ, who represents for Christians the highest point in the History of Human Evolution.

14. The World Shall Improve!

The World shall improve!

This is a favorite song of mine, by Migliacci, Cioni/Romitelli. Edizioni-: Mimo Edizioni Musicali Srl. Original (P) 1975 Sonty BMG Music Entertainment ( Italy ) SpA., much sung by the famous Gianni Morandi. I am here uploading the italian wording, hoping to be able to translate it in the English language, while able to project the magic of its lirics.

IL MONDO CAMBIERA'!

amico mio che stai

guardando intorno a te

non credi agli occhi tuoi

tu piangi e so il perche'

quel che provi tu

los sto provando anch'io

ma non cambiare mai

ti fa paura il mondo

amico mio coraggio

io piango come te

vedrai che il mondo cambiera'

le sue ferite guarira'

l'amore no, non puo' morire

sarebbe come dire

che questa e' la fine

vedrai la notte finira'

e l'uomo si risvegliera'

con gli occhi e il cuore

di un bambino che, non puo', tradire, mai

se nella mente tua

nascesse qualche idea

coraggio amico mio

il mondo aspetta te

ma non cambiare mai

e non scordare che

via via che salirai

gradino per gradino

ti sembrero' lontano

ma io sono uguale a te

vedrai che il mondo cambiera'

le sue ferite guarira'

l'amore no, non puo' morire

sarebbe come dire

che questa e' lafine

vedrai la notte finira', vedrai

e l'uomo si risvegliera'

con gli occhi e il cuore

di un bambino che, non puo, tradire, mai.

THE WORLD IS CHANGING!

oh friend of mine

all around you observing

unbelieving what you see

I know why you cry

while  feeling

just as you do

please, never change however

the world is scaring you, I know

oh friend of mine, have courage

while I cry with you

you'll see, the world shall change

its wounds shall heal

its love is not, cannot be dying

else it would be as if

all this should be an end

you'll see, the night shall end

and humankind be re-born anew

with eyes and the heart

of an infant who, betrayal never knew

if your mind

an idea were to sprout

my friend, be daring

while the world waits for you

please, never change however

never forget that

as you shall soar

one step at the time

far away I may appear to you

however I am the same as you

you'll see, the world shall change

its wounds shall heal

its love is not, cannot be dying

else it would be as if

all this should be an end

you'll see, the night shall end, you'll see

and humankind be re-born anew

with eyes and the heart

of an infant who, betrayal never knew.

I dedicate my english translation to all the mothers of the Universe and to their motherly love, and to all loving women in general !

13. An Ode to Bimbo Leader of Gangs.

To the esteemed readers-: This is a sequel to "The Woman of Arabia".

An Ode to Bimbo Leader of Gangs.
Once upon a time, Bimbo, dear Bimbo from Australia Fair,

a hybrid mongrel who could swiftly dish-out

reversals of chores and roles in the arena of sex

many encores eliciting from his obscenely lascivious

and mentally wasted bands,
the Templar approached in a cocky and aroused way
and said
with words which with the Templar’s thoughts
with great difficulty I am compelled betwixt to mix,

since I, a third person

of both Bimbo and the Templar am here speaking

in virtue of the way a "syllogism" is thought and written down

by the human mind, the sequential order of which

great Aristotle warned us,

in separation must be shown if greater clarity is to be won,
to the effect that simultaneously occurring
by various and differing pesonae’s
utterances and/or thoughts
could not without Windows Microsoft
yet only and still in windows separated
and only if on screens shown
which the americans describe as YGWYS
if thou finally get my drift, although,

I must confess

that even I at this stage my wits have lost -::

"Templar, oh you who a miserable fagot
by your restrained christian ways portrayest
You know, had I been you when young you were
of lofty Templar-ways still shy
when in the deserts of Arabia you saw
all those women shrouded in black, their anhorexic cleavages
hiding from the sight of lusty men
warely trodding their godforsaken paths away,
surrounded by camels, dogs and donkeys
in a discordant vigorous cacophony, braying, honking and grunting away
their sadly, cruelly and depleted ways
that unfeeling fate unscrupulous, unscrupulously to humanity belays
I would a ssuredly have stopped, proposed and their consent
obtained
to dilly-dallyy a little and have some sport along the way."
.................................................................................

( Templar’s thought simultaneously occurring-:)
"Halas poor wasted cleavages and forms

of which aroused Bimbo is braying of

which would defy of any greek geometrician
since Euclides’ days,
the cunning and knowing arts
to further try the yet unsquared circle to square
or the root to extract of its diagonal
or something of the sort that I need to be reminded of
that all have, I have been told,

hidden, ancient sumerian sexual imports
that Freud our latter-days’ guru faithfully reports of
of whom dear Bimbo neither heard
nor would anyway give a damn of
in cleavages his mind being irretrievably lost,
wether anhorexic or not it would neither matter to him a nought

nor the fact that Arabs forsooth invented our nought ".
(End of Templar’s uncharitable and rather grotty thoughts).
..................................................................................

To which the rather sombre, dour and sour Templar knight
his vilest mood rising while his temper restraining just
replied to Bimbo, all the way trying to think of his Order’s Spiritual Master
of Jesus Christ’s the gentle, tolerant all forbearing
yet effortless might-:
" Bimbo, dear Bimbo of mine, you irredimable dolt and clot,

for Jesus’ Love’s sake always remember
to over here, near to sweet Jesus remain and stay
and never, never to trod a path there where
verily verily and most assuredly
with your easy and unrestrained ways, my son,
your tiny, lustrous, yet hairy and ugly balls
you would loose to unforgiving,

of ages-past, Sharia's ways and Laws,

which do not give a damn whether

you acted with a consent or not ".

12. Of The Arabic Zero or Nought.

Of The Arabic Zero or Nought.

 

David-like

who of BigPond's bloggers' the Bard is,

to-day, again,
poetry shall I try to write
knowing I shall fail
to soar high and light
of poetry the clouds to hike, like he-:
Whenever “ butterfly “ the word I hear
invariably and with longing
of Cindy dear vainly I think
and Cindy as a chained link
which around my neck is
sorrowfully brings back to me
of Luthien the norwegian nymph
immemorable the memory
which as ice and frozen mist
the opposite but is
of Ludwige her nibelungian sister
of Wagner and Goethe
the amazonian dream
whose body is
a series of circle osculations
reaching
to infinitesimally small
but never quite reaching
tangentially asymptotic
integrations and derivations
exhausting at once all Euclidean
tri-dimensional trigonometric
expectations
finally satiated and spent
falling and ending into
a fat and empty
cathartic-like
Arabic zero or nought.
Reader of mine,
the morale of this Tale is-:
Honny Soit Quy Mal Ye Pense!

11.An Ode to Shimba the Cat.

This Ode is dedicated to all females who have made my life more human and humane. I could not imagine a human world without its females.

An Ode to Shimba the Cat.

 
Shimba is just a cat, they say.
But family is Shimba to me,
now that my parents have left me
and gone to that Garden where
eternal youth and bliss
is said to reign by those who,
while making doubly sure
that they always desperately
try to miss, hypocritically,
the last and the next bus there
while always sadly and forlornly
at Sunday’s functions singing Psalms
the high praises extolling of it
and of how sadly they all miss it,
all the while keeping on making every effort,
humanly possible, to never get there
upon a multitude of apologetic claims
that they are more needed
down here than up there
by human love that is the ofspring
of that Divine One Above
which so decrees for them to be
moreover taking out cash-insurance about it.
Might your patience please forgive
the short digression
while amicably and together
a swift return to waiting Shimba
dear reader of mine we make.
I claim Shimba is my cat
but she thinks my mother to be
as she continuously and dutifully patrols
of her territory the perimeter
where the house is to which she came
and which she has known
since when a tiny, little,
of her lost mother and of the litter the loss, then,
of her whole known- world the loss complayning,
as a ‘miaowing’, hungry, cold and lonely pet.
Shimba is almost human now.
In fact, I reckon
she is a human cat.
Of her daily Menu she knows
in her vast knowledge of gourmetry
all entries by heart
and if I were to tell her
she is going to have,
say, meaty-meaty, to-day
she’d her eyes lift to me
mockingly, as if to say, quizzingly
" Which kind prithee? "
in her mute but
rather unmistakeable ways.
Oh yes, mistakes do  not you make
She knows of porky-porky
and of mincy-mincy
of which she is partial to,
of beefy-beefy and lamby-lamby.
She gets all excited at the sound
of livy-livy, kiddy-kiddies  and  hearty-hearty too.
She has also become
a classical music devotee
when with her tails-movements
sitting on my lap
she signs her appreciation
for the most stirring
of Paganini’s violin music hits.
To her it must all sound
as if in cat-tongue a discourse
explaining all the types of mice and rats
caught in diabolical cattish traps.
I also sure have made
for Shimba to get
religiously educated as
of Lord Krishna to her I narrate
the love He had for cows and cats
revealing to her, while hypocritically
preparing her adorable porky-porky,
that if she well behaved
in sparing pidgy-pidgies and birdie-birdies
in her lust for game
surely indeed
mighty Lord Krishna would
at her death change her
into a glamourous,
all cleavages and curves-fairy
of high repute, a truly human bimba fair.
Yes, Shimba is unique
in both the world
of humans and of cats.
Shimba is also ‘bendy’
a word I have to use
in order to express her predilection
to wrap herself around or better still inside
the curved surface of a flower pot
that is large enough to accomodate
her matronly-like cat figure
minding of course with infinite and delicate care
the flowers or plants that inside the pot dwell.

In fact, I found that Shimba
is a great and passionate lover
of all herbs aromatic and medicinal
to which she olfactorily makes
offerings of love tender and sweet
during her daily patrols
in the bright sun.
Yes, Shimba is a wise old she-cat now
one could almost say
a philosopher among cats.
And I am almost sure that
my recently increased wisdom
otherwise unexplainable
is the result of some of her own
transmigratorily to my own transmitted
when laying as if dosing
in front of I writing away my thoughts
but with her littkle brain still ticking
and her eyes’ blinkers down
as if apparently closed
she gazes at me knowingly
all awhile transmitting away
her cattish thoughts and wisdom
to me whom she regards as her own son.
Yes, Shimba knows the times
when to go out and when to return.
Walter my father used to say-:
" Shimba is a whole Branch of Science,
whoever knows Shimba’s ways
knows the whole range of
the rather vast of Cats’ Science ,
as he woke up at 3 ocklock a.m.
to open for Shimba’s sake the front door".
I used to wantonly laugh and
think my father too old then, but,
now I am saddled with a second mother
and have become the servant
of a rather sophisticated and
gourmetising, spoiled, lovely,

loving and almost christian-like

She-Cat.

10. OF LARGE AND LITTLE 'o's.

OF LARGE AND LITTLE 'o's.

Sometimes I sit and wonder
in analogies drifting like
smoke does, randomly,
like a fat gaseous cloud,
patrician looking, all white,
with just a twinge of grey,
that carbon emissions betray,
to better contrast the immensity
of the bleu sky around,
in contemplations immersed
of self-possessing doubts
wartching the red vastness of
the Nullarbour plain below
of Yamarka and of the Ten Canoes-people
the incomprehensible delight,
too much sunlight on bare headed skulls
when still young,
for the want
of a good bush hat I guess.
Strangely enough
my everlasting obsessions arise
of how the Arabs for Salam Cafe’s
now highly noted and
in even greater repute,
could have the brains to discover
of the big Zero,
the vast array of virtues and uses.
Especially I, the gaseous cloud
which aforehead I talked to you about,
rememberst thou?
I wonder of why,
while the West chose
the Zero to appear as a big ‘ O ‘,
like a big holy halo
or to be more earthly bound,
even like onto the large,
bovine, arctic blue eyes of G..Y.
which looking up at you
as if in eternal and innocent wonder,
don’t you be fooled by them, o stranger,
stir your innards like a gallon of castor oil,
the Arabs decided that,
perhaps more wisely and fittingly than the West,
that the zero should rather be shown
as a fig-shaped, twisted, squashed,
suffering smalll ‘o’, an ‘o ‘ that has been
traumatized by some sodomitic experience
all contracted and twisted
as if out of a sodomitic spasmodic and spastic

orgasmic gasping,
just after an aggravating cracking
induced by vigorous farting
induced by loud laughing
brought about by Salem Cafe’s poor antics,
not to mention the more subdued and discreet ones
resulting from effeminate Anglican chantings.
Honny Soit Quy Mal Ye Pense.

9. To an Aussie Chrysalis.

To an Aussie Chrysalis.

Gentle chrysalis that,

with searching and longings
now my dreams

of Thee shall fill,
fraily waiting and dormant,
yet eversensing
such as when in their light sleep
the Muses their spare time spend,
beauty to spin anew and Fate alike,
Thy icon suggests to me
a soft, warm, silky coccoon
wrapping up as if within royal fine laces
a precious human gem,
bursting with tenderness
cheerfully curious about
the mystery that life is.
Perhaps, perchance,
someday far off
open the coccoon shall be,
the shining, vibrant, fluttering butterfly within
that, halas!, would also remind me
of dear lost Cindy,
to freely roam the fields to allow,
halas!,
----life is full of

and made to seem longer

by such regrets as these----
even if for a short,
too short a summer day
that our human life is,
measured against
God and Eternity.
Requiem das nobis, Domine!

May Allah give us rest!

8. An Ode to Faded, Tight-over-the-crotch, Bleu Jeans.

   An Ode to Faded, Tight-over-the-crotch, 

Bleu Jeans.

( Dedicated to my favourite bleu jeans-wearer, G.Y. , a lady-blogger, who has the most beguiling arctic-bleu, roundest, bleuest eyes with the bimba-looks of an eternally innocent, after-orgasmic contentment. If you know what I mean.)

An Ode to Faded and Tight-over-the-crotch, Bleu Jeans.

The praises I wish to sing of
the icon that now sways
both West and East
about our male wits.
Many an invention has it spurred
with its utilitarian twist
that makes both genders
wear it as if
Unisex were Holy Writ.
Even the Vatican
has wisely endorsed it,
since it can, uncannily,
and paradoxically alike,
more babies stimulate
the genders to spin,
so as, as even Cardinal Pell
of Sydney, in Australia Fair,
the grey Eminence,
concernedly assures us all,
that in the West,
more babies are needed
in order the demographic growth
to balance-out with the East
where more vigorously than in the West
fornication is indulged in.
That is in fact the secret reason why
Australia has imported so many
of the people from the East,
including those who Salam Cafe’ favour
and all its crappities, crudities and nonsensities.
More babies are needed in Australia Fair, you nitwits!
So get down to it, vigorously, the task to fulfil.
"Do not worry children of my soul,
don’t worry about water and energy,"
says the Cardinal.
"Regarding water,
we can always import the mineral from Europe
blessed if need be, by papal hands for free,
to have our showers with.
Energy is not a problem,
as, with more babies
one can always have plenty of human power
to move the cogs of our Economy.
Back to the Middle Ages shall we return
happily singing with Bob Brown
and the Dalai Lama

and all the Greens too,
under the May-Pole Tree.
Who knows if perchance
the fate of Tibet
shall be Australia's own too.
Halas!
All good and pleasant things must always end.
Let us return to the subject of this song
that was the icon
that mightily moves both West and East,
more even so than both
the Internet and the PC,
Bill Gate the wise
also concurring with this.
The icon is nonetheless than
the humble Bleu Jean
which dear old Levi,
of Israel a worthy
and good patriarcal son,

as soon as resettled in his New Jerusalem

which the Italians called Broccolin,
devised originally for rough-riding,
pale-faced cowboys to wear
under their leather outfits,
which of cutting and sharp thorns took care,
so as to better contain and restrain
their bursting oversized balls,
bursting for the want of use
as the Far West was once a women-less waste,
however, the Bleu Jeans
soon changed and corrected all this,
while at the same time also
strong enough
to fulfill the function that
the Templars’ ball-suspenders of old,
were wanted to do,
carrying out the protecting function
that restrained opponents
to grab one's balls in any close conflict
to unlawfully gain a contest by deceit.
Levi used to make these for a dollar a piece,
the poor soul, not ever guessing how popular
and ubiquitous these would have been.
He cunningly reinforced these
with little copper studs
that made the vain cowboy look
as if more bemedalled
than even a russian returned soldier indeed
who needs two comrades
to help him march in a parade
for the weight of the vast
of his medals the array.

Eventually, to cut the tale short,
the Jeans caught
of the feminists the attention,
who quicly, on the spur, decided
in their usual aggressive ways
to adopt the Jeans as an expression
of their equality and supremacy
over even the patriarcal race.
However God who is on the patriarcal side,
this being the weaker side
and of the NT the God must
to his Son be true,
Who the weak and meek loves most,
saw all and said-: " Ha, ha! Thou shalt not prevail.
Tightly and more revealingly
then even the skirts
can suggestively only do,
thou shall wear them oh of Eve the daughter.
Tight, very tight and close,
so as to reveal, but just so,
the little jewels thou have been
graciously and undeservedly provided with
by the cunning and all-knowing
Arts of God Who created Thee.
Is there a need to further proceed
in the spinning of this tale
that can verified be
any time and everywhere
a Bleu Jean is
that any cunning female of the human species
wears with so much deceit?
Even I a Templar
halas!, now sexually at rest,
blessing everyday
the peace that this means
---many poor sods are known
to blow their brains out
in spite of their wife, mistresses,
salami, home-made sauces, offspring
double-storey, triple-fronted,
balconied mansions
for the want of stimulation---
yes, I was saying, even I,
I must forsooth confess,
still am, just for an instant though,
all bamboozled by the sight
of a tightly-worn,
strategically revealing, while hiding,
the hints of what is
that miracle that God invented

which Rabelais, the french priest called
"the solution of all continuities ",
and that the Orientals call "the Jade Gates ".
Rabelais indeed,
who lived when,
in the Renaissance of human spirit,
man began anew
to dare and play the clown
after the neo-spartan rigours
of Middle-Aged restraints
that to no avail
improvements to morality could bring,
for want of charismatic laughter,
that even God enjoys on High,
that is why He/She/IT
created me a holy clown to wit.
Rabelais as I was saying,
in one of his light and clownish moments,
while resting from the rigours
of trying to bring down from Heavens,
the sacramentally enclosed God
Who is said in the Holy Host
to renovate the miracle of Salvation
through an eternal renewal of Sacrifice,
that the Bleu Jeans
wrongly understood and interpreted
can forsooth cause the unaware to need,
but everyone needs it anyway
as no one is innocent at all,
as the Scriptures and even Paul of Tarsus agree with,
if Cardinal Pell’s subtile thought
is not fully understood.